The Portuguese Duck Page #2

								

the last word, though she is always in the wrong. That fat duck yonder
speaks evil of every one, and that is against our principles. If we
have nothing good to tell, we close our beaks. The Portuguese is the
only one who has had any education, and with whom we can associate,
but she is passionate, and talks too much about 'Portugal.'"

"I wonder what those two Chinese are whispering about,"
whispered one duck to another; "they are always doing it, and it
annoys me. We never speak to them."

Now the drake came up, and he thought the little singing-bird
was a sparrow. "Well, I don't understand the difference," he said; "it
appears to me all the same. He's only a plaything, and if people
will have playthings, why let them, I say."

"Don't take any notice of what he says," whispered the Portuguese;
"he's very well in matters of business, and with him business is
placed before everything. But now I shall lie down and have a little
rest. It is a duty we owe to ourselves that we may be nice and fat
when we come to be embalmed with sage and onions and apples." So she
laid herself down in the sun and winked with one eye; she had a very
comfortable place, and felt so comfortable that she fell asleep. The
little singing-bird busied himself for some time with his broken wing,
and at last he lay down, too, quite close to his protectress. The
sun shone warm and bright, and he found out that it was a very good
place. But the fowls of the neighborhood were all awake, and, to
tell the truth, they had paid a visit to the duckyard, simply and
solely to find food for themselves. The Chinese were the first to
leave, and the other fowls soon followed them.

The witty little duck said of the Portuguese, that the old lady
was getting quite a "doting ducky," All the other ducks laughed at
this. "Doting ducky," they whispered. "Oh, that's too 'witty!'" And
then they repeated the former joke about "Portulak," and declared it
was most amusing. Then they all lay down to have a nap.

They had been lying asleep for some time, when suddenly
something was thrown into the yard for them to eat. It came down
with such a bang, that the whole company started up and clapped
their wings. The Portuguese awoke too, and rushed over to the other
side: in so doing she trod upon the little singing-bird.

"Tweet," he cried; "you trod very hard upon me, madam."

"Well, then, why do you lie in my way?" she retorted, "you must
not be so touchy. I have nerves of my own, but I do not cry 'tweet.'"

"Don't be angry," said the little bird; "the 'tweet' slipped out
of my beak unawares."

The Portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast
as she could, and made a good meal. When she had finished, she lay
down again, and the little bird, who wished to be amiable, began to
sing,--

  "Chirp and twitter,
    The dew-drops glitter,
  In the hours of sunny spring,
    I'll sing my best,
    Till I go to rest,
  With my head behind my wing."


"Now I want rest after my dinner," said the Portuguese; "you
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